


We're only human, after all

by hypatheticallyspeaking



Category: Bleach
Genre: (obviously zombie au related violence), F/M, Gen, I'll add tags later to avoid spoliers, Zombie AU, hitsukarin - Freeform, slowburn, the only romantic ship I focus on is hitsukarin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 16:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7275661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypatheticallyspeaking/pseuds/hypatheticallyspeaking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been five years since the zombie apocalypse. Surviving day-to-day has become easier, and fighting zombies is second nature. But that means living to live and taking the time to breathe has become a foreign concept.<br/>Karin's always been strong, but independence can only take you so far when the world's out to get you. Toshiro is so invested in his group of survivors that he doesn't think about himself much. Of course they're going to clash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're only human, after all

The sky is overcast, threatening a downpour any minute. The group of five people crosses the long-deserted streets of Karakura Town, systematically making their way towards their destination. In the lead, the largest of the bunch, a well-built man with a machete in his hand, signals for them to move forward after he glances around the corner. Two of the five, a pair of girls, follow closely behind him, watching each other’s back as though it’s second nature to them. They’re followed by the youngest of the group, a young woman wearing combat boots and a bright red baseball cap. Her hands are balled up into fists as she darts forward, hopping over the metal lid of a trash can. She twists in midair, beckoning for the final member of their team to follow as well; he lowers his bow slightly as he moves up to catch them as well. They repeat the process with little variation until they’re practically on the other side of town.

“Orihime, you’re up,” the youngest says as they near a back entrance to an abandoned apartment complex.

The orange-haired woman nods, removing several hairpins from her bangs and bending down in front of the lock. The others surround her in a semicircle, keeping an eye out for any movement. It takes a minute before the lock clicks, and the lock picker fixes her waist-length hair by moving it out of her face.

As she turns around, her voice is light, surprisingly cheerful for the seemingly solemn task. “Chad, your turn!”

The largest of them draws his machete before nodding to Orihime. They all take a step back, just in case something emerges from the doorway. The air is tense, but they are fortunate enough that nothing was in the immediate vicinity.

The bespectacled man draws an arrow, following Chad into the foyer of the apartment complex. He scans the room before lowering his bow. “We’re clear,” he states, and the remaining members of the group follow.

“I’ll head up to the third floor and start clearing the rooms there,” the youngest states, tightening her grip on her backpack. Noting their reluctant glances, she adds, “There’s fewer rooms there and I still remember the layout from before everything went to hell.” She doesn’t want to think back, but it still gets her point across.

The final member of their team speaks up as she tucks a few wisps of black hair behind her ear. “Just be careful, Karin.”

“I always am, Tatsuki. I always am.”

Karin knows she’s being rash, but these occasional missions are her only freedom from the doldrums of their home and having her brother’s—technically her—friends hovering over her like worried mother hens doesn’t let her escape. She slips on her brass knuckles, clenching her hands into fists before moving up the stairs. The stairs are empty, and she’s nearly at the entrance to the third floor when she hears Ishida and Tatsuki following her up the stairs. She figured that they would be the ones to take care of the second floor.

The hall consists of seven separate apartments, each one different. She knows that the complex was abandoned when the first outbreak became public knowledge, so she doesn’t expect anything—or anyone, for that matter—to be present in the rooms.

She clears the first four apartments without any problems, but she’s midway through the fifth apartment when she hears noises coming from the locked bathroom. This time she removes one of her knives from the cross-draw sheathes on either side on her waist. Judging from the shuffling sound, it _is_ a zombie.

Karin kicks open the door and takes a few steps backwards, giving herself room to dodge whatever the zombie does in its newfound freedom. It moves slowly, limping forward on what is clearly an already-broken leg. Its arms are thin and pale, but what catches Karin’s focus is that it reeks worse than any other zombie she’s come across, and over the past five years, she’s killed more zombies than she can count.

One swift lunge with her blade and the zombie collapses, the undead creature finally dying for a final time. Karin bows her head in reverence for the human that used to be; if it’s one of the people that used to live in the apartment, which is more than likely, she had at least held a conversation or two with them while she and her friends would meet up after soccer practice during her only year in high school. She still misses the old days, where she could have done whatever she wanted, where her biggest problem would have been making sure Yuzu wasn’t getting picked on or focusing on soccer to make sure that her team won the next match.

She leaves, closing the door behind her and ignoring the sound of rattling cans and medicine in her backpack, and turns to the next apartment. It’s one that she’d visited on a weekly basis. Thankfully, her friend and his family had escaped towards Tokyo before everything in Karakura got bad; their apartment is deserted and Karin gathers more from that single apartment than she did from the previous five.

The minimal light that had filtered in through half-open shades and blind-less hallway windows faded into nothingness as the overcast skies darkened even further. Karin re-adjusts her ponytail, fixing the red band tighter against her head. The backpack she carries weighs more than she anticipated that it would; it’s practically overflowing with supplies that they’ve been searching for. Not that she’s mad, but it also means that she won’t have a chance to go on a supply run for a couple more weeks.

Still, it’s better than coming up empty-handed. And besides, she’s still got one more room left in the apartment.

Karin tries opening the door normally, but when the locked knob refuses to turn, she takes a step back. Using more effort than necessary, she kicks down the door. Somehow, it stays on its hinges. Her footsteps cause the floorboards to creak, and she holds her fists out in front of her. The room is practically cleared out, except for one room. So far, she hasn’t faced problems, but the sight she sees is more disturbing than anything she’s faced since she was fifteen. She doesn’t know whether to just slam the door and leave or to continue.

Curiosity wins the battle, and she moves closer to the zombie in the room. It’s bound to a chair: hands tied behind the back, legs duct-taped to the chair, and there’s a gag in its mouth. Karin presses the heel of her hand against her mouth to prevent the scream that she’s holding back. The zombie isn’t a new one, probably a few months to half a year since turning. Somehow, well-kept and, from the looks of it, not hungry.

There’s a sign strung around the zombie’s neck: “I couldn’t kill her, but please don’t touch her.” There’s something additional on the sign, but it’s been scribbled out and what had been written afterwards remains unreadable.

“I’m so sorry,” Karin chokes out, glancing around the room for any supplies that she can use. Behind the door, there’s a teal bag. Absentmindedly noting the lack of dust on the bag, she kneels down and rummages through the items. There’s a couple bottles of pain meds, bandages, and a suture set. It’s nothing substantial that she doesn’t have plenty of in her pack or back at their base of operations. It’s clearly a safe house for whoever loved the zombie girl, and she feels sadness for the first time in years. At the same time, she wonders if the person was stupid for loving someone who could no longer return to their old self.

The young woman hears Tatsuki calling for her, and she drops the bag in almost the same place it had been. She extricates herself from the room, closing the door behind her. The door clicks, and it feels like the sound’s faint echo will never end. Her hands are shaking, and she takes a deep breath to steel herself.

She can’t break or cry.

Another breath.

She’s the strong one, after all.

The intake of air is what she needs to hide the scene behind her, and lock away the raw emotion that came with seeing it. She readjusts the straps of her backpack before heading down the hallway to meet up with the rest of her group.

As she opens the stairwell door, Karin can’t help but spare a glance back at the door. Every single bone in her body, every nerve is on end. She doesn’t like that feeling at all. She can’t shake the feeling that something bad is about to happen, and it terrifies her.

*-*~*-*

Atop a three-story building in Karakura Town, a young man watches a group of five people leave an apartment building that he helped to clear out nearly a year before. He rests a hand on the katana that remains strapped across his back, but his blue eyes trail the group. He’s seen them before, on rare occasions, but they’ve never seen him. He’s too wary for that.

The sky has darkened considerably since he saw them enter the dilapidated complex, and the temperature is going down. Not that he minds the cold, anyway. But people will be annoyed at him if he doesn’t return in a timely manner. They have a curfew for non-group missions, and he intends to keep the rules despite how irritating they can be.

He’s far enough from their current base of operations that it takes him nearly an hour until it’s visible among the other buildings. There is absolutely no sun, and he feels the start of an ice-cold rain begin to fall from the dark gray heavens.

Matsumoto’s going to have a fit.

The cerulean beanie that he uses to hide his shockingly white hair soaks up rain, and he can feel the faint trickle of water that makes it past his clothing and falls along his spine. He takes off the hat as he enters a warehouse that towers above him. The entryway glows an orange hue from the old lightbulbs strung along the walls. He hears the sound of people milling about in the room down the hall. He unslings his sheathed katana from its position against its back, lowering it to rest against the floor as he unwraps the blue-green scarf from around his neck. He carries his weapon with him as he moves towards the source of the noise.

There’s something to be said for the uproarious noise that comes from the mess hall. He rolls his eyes up towards the no-longer-functional ceiling fans. The door creaks open slowly as he slips into the mess hall. Everyone, aside from the people on lookout, is gathered together in the center of the room. He strips off his waterlogged sweatshirt, tossing it onto a nearby bench. Thankfully, his shoes don’t make any noise as he takes his usual place on the outskirts of the tables. He steals a piece of bread from what he knows is his friend’s plate, and leans back to watch the inevitable shenanigans that are occurring between the others. The red-headed man stands up abruptly—not that he’s surprised—and all of a sudden everyone’s in an uproar. The orange-haired loudmouth stands up as well, and the two appear to be on the verge of a full-out fistfight.

“What the hell is going on?” an older man calls down from the rafters above them. His scarred and spiky-haired appearance is menacing when he’s calm, but the elevated anger makes almost everyone take a step back out of fear.

The only one to speak up is the youngest of them all, a pink-haired teenager, who turns around with an exuberant smile. “Well, Ichi and Pineapple Head were about to throw down. Are you going to join them?”

“Hell yeah!” He moves down the stairs, taking them multiple at a time.

Everyone shifts awkwardly and people make their way back to their seats. He does his best to remain inconspicuous, but Rangiku Matsumoto knows him better than that. Her blue eyes narrow as she sees him feigning nonchalance. She’s silent as she slips into her usual seat across from him, and glances at her plate.

Prepare for the inquisition.

“Toshiro?” she inquires, her voice steely. “Where have you been?”

“Out.” He grits his teeth, “And quit calling me by my first name.” He prepares himself for the onslaught of questions.

“Please tell me,” she says, changing the topic, “ _why_ did you steal my food?” She folds her arms across her chest, stretching the fabric of her already low-cut shirt.

“It was getting cold.”

“Bullshit.” She sighs, altering her false cold demeanor. “Tell me you at least managed to get something done while you were out for a full day. Recon or scavenging?”

He shakes his head. The fact that there are other survivors in Karakura should become common knowledge, but he fears what his collection of survivors would do with the information. Would they stick to the rules that had been in place since the destruction of the world five years earlier? Would they run headlong into a fight with the people without any understanding of the other group’s capabilities? Or would they attempt to connect with the other group, not even treading on the side of caution?

Her words snap him out of his reverie. “You learned something though, I see.”

“Nothing of importance. At least, not yet.”

“You can trust me, you know, Captain.” Normally, people use his nickname either to belittle his above-average intelligence or praise his ability to take charge whenever situations become dire—obviously, he prefers the latter. But coming from Matsumoto, it’s a term of endearment that the woman has used for years.

He steals a second piece of bread from her plate and takes a bite. Under his breath, he mutters, “Yeah, and then you’ll go and blab to someone once you’re drunk.”

“What was that?” she questions, arching an eyebrow.

“Nothing, nothing,” Toshiro replies, waving a dismissive hand. “I’ll tell you what I know when it becomes important to know.” He slips out of his seat, dusting off his pants as proof that he’s done with the ongoing conversation.

“So cold, Captain,” the woman pouts. “Grab me some booze next time you’re out! You should join me and Kira next time.” She aims a playful punch at his shoulder but he moves swiftly out of the way.

“Sure, I’ll keep an eye out,” he replies drily. “Not that I’ll drink any.”

“You’ve grown up, but you’re still a stickler for the rules—even if it’s been nearly a year since you would’ve been allowed to drink in Japan. Loosen up. What happened to the tiny genius willing to goof off and actually act like a kid every once in a while?”

He just rolls his eyes, in part because he’s still a little picky about being called tiny, even if he still remains average height. He’s grown and matured more than a lot of the people here. “That _never_ described me.” He grabs his sweatshirt before he forgets it and someone attempts to steal it—he wouldn’t put it past some of the people. “I’ll see about going on an actual supply run later this week.”

The mess hall is just as busy as before, but over the years he’s learned to tune out the incessant loud conversations and boisterous fights that happen into background noise. He’s able to snag a small bag of snacks—somehow he’s the only one who ever eats amanatto—from the kitchens area before heading out to his own room. The hallways are dimly lit, but he could walk them in his sleep.

His room is one of the few on the first floor of the compound, a privilege he’s been granted after helping to transform their once-band-of-misfits into a semblance of an organized group. It also helps that he’s one of the lightest sleepers and strongest fighters. If anyone, or anything, dares invade their compound, Toshiro will be right there with his katana drawn.

His hands are itching to fight something or someone, partially after everyone’s displays of idiotic belligerence in the mess. But he really does need to get out of his rain-soaked clothes. He changes into clothes that are more comfortable but less durable—a pair of cargo pants, rather than jeans, and a t-shirt that hangs loosely on his frame—and hangs his clothes up to dry on a thin wire strung between the two makeshift bookshelves that act as a barrier between his side of the room and the other formerly occupied side that he refuses to touch. His gaze lingers on the empty cot for a few seconds before he turns back to the door. He grabs his katana and begins to make his way towards the training room.

It’s late enough in the day that the people who normally would be training have finished for the time being. A small grin, no more than an upwards tilt of his lip, crosses his face as he grabs one of the training swords from the rack. He starts his training regiment, straining his own body more than usual. He’s always needed to be strong, and he’s been slacking off this past week. After half an hour, he puts down the wooden sword.

There’s a punching bag hanging in the room, and Toshiro lands a few punches and kicks before he hears someone walking down the hall. He rests a hand on the leather bag, stopping it mid-swing. His breathing hasn’t even gotten heavy, despite the fact that there’s absolutely no sunlight filtering through the clouds anymore. He really could have done more.

“I’m going to bed, Toshiro. Come on!” It’s Rangiku standing at the doorframe. “You can join me if you want.”

He rolls his eyes. She really needs to quit being so flirtatious, even if it’s just to annoy him. “I’ve got work to do.”

“By work, you mean beating up the poor punching bag until it’s spilling sand and you’re bleeding?” Her tone remains light, but she’s concerned.

He doesn’t say anything, knowing full well that she’s seen right through him.

“Well then come on, fight me!” She picks up one of the bokken on the table, and tosses the one he was using earlier across the room to Toshiro. “Unless you’re scared, _captain_.”

He pushes strands of spiky white hair out of his eyes, a rare smile crossing his face.

He doesn’t end up returning to his room until way later than he anticipated. He still has to take a shower and write down everything he’s learned today. But that’s okay, he’s actually calmer than he was before, not that he was outwardly showing it, anyway.

*-*~*-*

The Kurosaki Clinic buzzes with life, as usual. It’s been a year since they cleared out their old home, and moved back into the clinic permanently. It’s strange, living in her childhood bedroom again. At the very least, they’re much better off than they were at the start of the zombie apocalypse; they no longer have to change their location every few weeks to avoid roving bands of the undead.

Her group started out small, just their family, but it’s grown to nearly two dozen people from around Karakura town. It’s practically an amalgamation of strays and survivors who managed to survive the changing world. Mostly friends from their former lives, but a few people who Karin had never even met prior to everything.

It’s been a week since their last run, and the raven-haired girl shifts restlessly. She’s never been much of a cook or even been good at maintaining conversation with others, so instead she kicks around a soccer ball in her bedroom until Yuzu yells at her to stop because of the constant noise. She’s just past her twentieth birthday, and she’s as energetic as she was when she was eleven. It’s sad, really, how has everyone matured so much while she’s stuck in the past? Yuzu’s equally as skilled as their father when it comes to treating patients, and Orihime steps in as a second nurse if anything truly gets bad. Chad and Uryuu have since fulfilled Ichigo’s former role of protector, watching over everyone. She used to be able to be their backbone as well as be the strong-willed one.

She shakes her head, willing the negative thoughts away. Even though everything is peaceful, she really can’t afford to relax. Not now, not ever. Everyone’s growing complacent, and she has too.

Karin runs a hand through inky hair before she sits up. Staring at the ceiling isn’t going to help her, and the sunlight that streams through her window proves that she’s spent way too long loitering in bed. It’s after breakfast, at the very least, and it feels like everything’s doused in a hazy fog. Her limbs feel heavy, but she’s sure it’s just a result of not getting enough sleep over the course of the past week.

She narrowly dodges an onslaught of questions from Yuzu as she moves down the hallway, wordlessly ruffling her sister’s hair. Her pajamas are loose on her wiry frame, and the worn oversized t-shirt makes her stand out from the others, who are dressed as though it’s their turn to take watch. They haven’t encountered strangers since they reclaimed the clinic. Tatsuki and Orihime are sitting at the kitchen table, discussing their plans to create a garden within the open areas of the clinic. From the sounds of it, they’ve got almost everything under wraps and are going to actually start building it soon.

“Mornin’,” Tatsuki greets with a wave of her hand.

“What time is it?” Karin asks as she slips into her usual seat and grabs some of the leftover breakfast foods.

“It’s nearly noon,” Orihime says as a way of greeting the tired young woman. “Are you feeling any better?”

“I’m fine,” Karin insists between mouthfuls of food. “I’m actually thinking about going on a run for more food supplies.”

Orihime’s brown eyes narrow slightly as she scrutinizes Karin’s appearance. The younger girl rolls her eyes—just because she hasn’t been herself for a few days doesn’t mean that she’s unable to fend off zombies like it’s second nature.

“You should take care of yourself more,” Tatsuki comments, flicking Karin in the forehead. “Don’t do anything stupid either, ok?”

“I won’t.”

Tatsuki snorts. “Yeah, that’s a lie.”

“I won’t intentionally get hurt,” Karin amends, hoping that it’ll appease the black-belt a bit more than her original statement. “I’m twenty, I can take care of myself.”

“Fair enough.”

Karin finishes her breakfast in silence before cleaning off the table and heading back upstairs to her bedroom. After stripping out of her bedclothes, she pulls on a pair of weather-worn jeans, an old soccer jersey, and a thicker jacket. It takes her a minute to attach her sheathed knives to her belt, and she slips her brass knuckles into her pockets. Some instinct tells her to include all her weapons, to take a hidden blade as well, and she straps it to the outside of her ankle. She tugs on her steel-toed boots, lacing them tightly. She checks her red backpack, ensuring that everything she could possibly need is present. As she moves to leave her room, she picks up her old baseball cap from her closet and places it on her head, tugging her ponytail through the hole in the back.

Opening the door, she’s surprised to see Orihime outside with a hand raised mid-knock.

“S-sorry!” the woman squeaks. “I just wanted to talk to you for a second.”

Karin sighs, lowering her backpack. “Come on in, then.”

They sit next to each other on her bed, awkwardly fidgeting until Orihime finds the right words. “You’re going out, no matter what we say, aren’t you?”

Karin nods. “I can’t stay cooped up here. It just—”

“You need to be out there, doing something.” Orihime smiles sadly, a nostalgic look in her eyes. “You know, you remind me so much of Ichigo, it’s uncanny sometimes.”

“Yeah, I can see it in your eyes. You don’t need to be sad though. We still don’t know if he’s dead. Knowing him, he’s still out there somewhere, that idiot.” There it is: the small naïve hope that she holds dear to her.

Orihime’s smile falters for a split second, and her eyes fall to her lap. “I just don’t know what would happen if you get hurt. You’re already paler than usual,” she adds quietly as she twists the golden band that once belonged to Karin’s mother around her finger. “Just stay safe, okay? Try to make it back by nightfall, or if you can’t, you know where it’s safe.”

Karin wraps her arms around Orihime. “Don’t worry,” Karin reassures her, “I’ve dealt with zombies since I was fifteen. If I’ve survived this long, there’s no way I’ll be leaving you anytime soon.”

“I’ve always been a worrier,” she replies. “I know you don’t need me to fuss over you—Yuzu does that enough already.”

Karin laughs, standing up and slinging her backpack around her shoulders. “It’s all good. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Deciding that fighting her father for a few hours of freedom is a waste of time, she slips out of her window and climbs up onto the roof. She can feel Orihime’s gaze follow her as she clambers down a tree and makes her way down the street. The blue, cloudless sky results in her spirits soaring. Normally she would have at least another person at her side, and they’d be moving systematically rather than actually _relaxing_ in the fresh air.

Without a specific goal, she finds herself wandering wherever her feet take her. It’s only when she stops that she realizes where she’s headed. She used to frequent the shop with her brother on a whim—it was owned by a strange man named Urahara and his misfit band of employees… not that she’d ever say that to their faces, of course.

A nostalgic smile crosses her face as she remembers what it used to look like when she was younger. The two young employees, Jinta and Ururu, would let her join in and play some street games on rare occasions, and despite them constantly changing the rules, it had been a nice change of pace from her soccer tournaments. Urahara would emerge from the shop with overpriced candy and drinks, and she’d tell him to make Ichi-nii pay for it. She can’t help the pang in her chest at the onslaught of memories.

The shop’s front has become nearly unrecognizable, covered in vines and other plants. The roof has long-since caved in, and any remaining wares must have been taken within the first few months of the zombie apocalypse. She briefly hopes that they’re all okay; they offered room in their party that was heading towards Tokyo, but her dad and the rest of their friends wanted to remain in Karakura town since most people were leaving anyway. Hopefully they’ve made it to Tokyo and are surviving happily, despite what she’s heard about cities being worse-off than the suburbs.

She’s so lost in her thoughts that she doesn’t hear the groans of zombies as they approach. It’s only when one trips over a fallen metal garbage can that she shoves her hands in her pockets and pulls on her brass knuckles. Whirling around, she faces the zombies that have appeared.

Karin frowns. She could’ve sworn that this entire area of Karakura was clear of zombies for months. Just her luck.

The area is decent terrain, open and with a few escape routes. It’s not a lot of zombies, she notes, focusing on the half dozen that have appeared from the pathways behind the houses. They reek of garbage and musty air, and it almost pains her to breathe. A light breeze sends a shiver down her spine. But she’s got this. She’s certainly fought off more zombies before. There’s a resounding crack as another few break through a building’s boarded up windows, emerging from the once-closed house as though

She isn't sure why there are so many zombies, but she doesn't have time to think; her thoughts are hazy already, but as she readies her arms defensively, determination surges through her veins.

Sidestepping the first undead, she lands a crushing blow to its skull and it slumps to the ground without any further movement. The second to appear reaches for her with outstretched arms and a gaping jaw. Punching straight forward, she ducks between its arms and deals the second zombie a lethal blow as well. It falls to the ground and she steps across its carcass before sweeping the feet out from underneath its body and placing a sharp kick to its head. She allows herself a split second of pride, a smug grin crossing her face, before turning to the incoming zombies.

The smile on her face falls and she sighs. The sounds of a struggle have attracted more zombies, nearly tripling the original size of the horde. But rather than continuing from the same source, they appear to be advancing from all different sides, like bugs from the woodwork. Drawing her knives from their cross-sheathes, she purses her lips together. She can already feel sweat beading down her neck, and she's barely gotten started.

"Well, come on then," she goads, even though there is never any response from zombies. After all, they've become brainless hunting machines.

She swiftly takes out a half-dozen with as much grace and elegance as she can muster with her fighting style. It's a work of art that consists of sharp jabs and sweeping kicks littered with fully extended slashes of her blades. Karin continues the process of evading and countering until her arms feel heavy, and she no longer wishes to exert as much force. Her hat has fallen off in the skirmish, a spot of red amongst the zombies’ graying and faded clothes.

She moves towards a now-empty alleyway as an attempt to bottleneck their movements and decrease the number of zombies she's fighting at once. It's successful for a matter of time, extending her stand against them to nearly twenty full minutes. But the zombies appear to be never-ending. She's been grabbed twice, and she's never been this close to death before. It's a mix of fear and excitement, and the logical part of her brain tells her that it should not be the latter. The sheer number of zombies is unlike anything she's faced before, and Karin momentarily regrets not taking anyone with her on the random and capricious excursion.

The stubborn fighter shakes her head, letting inky locks fall in front of her face. She ignores the shivers down her spine and the haze appearing in her peripherals.

She can handle this on her own.

She's the strong one, after all.

Besides, she lost count at either sixteen or seventeen. She can handle the dozen-or-so that are left.

She curses at the top of her voice as she charges forward, finally taking an offensive tactic against the zombies. Her attacks are slower and weaker, a result of spending so long dodging and retaliating. She’s so focused on her task that she’s unaware of the fact that several of the zombies have turned their attention away from her, instead focusing on something in the street.

The sound of metal slicing through the air followed by falling bodies surprises her, and she misses the zombie’s head, instead clipping its shoulder. It staggers and she dispatches it with a skull-cracking kick.

Karin glances at the guy across from her, unable to make out any of his features other than turquoise eyes. He nods, and she knows that there’s a tacit agreement on the floor: they won’t fight each other, not while zombies are threatening their lives. And for that, she’s thankful.

*-*~*-*

Toshiro really isn’t sure why he’s helping a stranger, but he doesn’t have the time to debate his own motives.

Ten remain as the lithe woman springs back into combat, fighting the four in front of her. She takes the first down with a quick jab with the blade in her left hand. He strikes down half of the zombies with a single slash of his katana, and the remaining four are simple to pick off.

He sees her stagger to dodge a zombie’s outstretched arms, and her feet catch on a corpse. She falls backwards, barely catching herself before she’s attacked by one of the zombies. The world pauses and spins infinitely faster, and Toshiro’s cutting down the undead man on top of her with a single blow. He pulls her up with his free hand while fighting off the remaining three. Her palm is sweaty, and she’s as pale as a ghost, but he doesn’t have time to ask her if she’s even okay because he’s got a zombie breathing down his neck.

Years of experience kick in, triggering muscle memory as he dodges outstretched arms and gnashing teeth. He slashes forward, defeating one of the three with a downward stroke. Pivoting on his toes, he turns his back to the creature, blade behind him and arms over his shoulder. He slices upwards, eviscerating the zombie as he slices it in half. Toshiro raises the katana above his head as the final zombie rushes forward, but he halts his downwards strike as the girl meets the zombie’s head with a skull-crushing punch. He can’t see her face, but he has a distinct feeling that there’s a proud smile across it.

Unable to control the momentum from her final blow, she staggers forward. It’s only then that Toshiro notices just how heavy her breathing is. She glances over her shoulder, towards him. There’s a certain stubbornness in her eyes that reminds him of why Matsumoto used to berate him.

“You okay?” the white-haired zombie slayer asks, even though he knows, deep down, what the stranger’s answer will be.

She turns to face him with an amused look on her face. “I’m fine.” Her brow furrows and she doesn’t drop out of a defensive stance, even though she’s way out of the reach of his katana. Her mercurial eyes flit across the ground; there’s a spark of recognition and she walks diagonally forward. Without bending down, the woman kicks something colorful into the air and snatches it out from in front of her. She pulls the object—a red baseball cap—onto her head and attempts a grin. It looks more like a grimace. “See?” she declares. “Perfectly fine.”

He’s certainly amused by her attempts to put on a brave face. Even if it’s rather stupid.

“No bites?” He certainly hopes not. This girl would make a good potential ally, and her group of friends would be great to trade with, from the looks of it. If she were to turn, that would be a waste of her talent too.

She shakes her head before losing her balance and needing to steady herself. Moving to the side of an ivy-covered building, she says, “Thanks for the assist.”

“Us human survivors need to stick together,” he ends up saying, despite the fact that even holding a conversation is a risk.

He normally wouldn’t have helped her.

Damn, he’s getting soft.

Her eyes flutter closed and her breathing gets shallower before falling back into a steady pattern. His arms feel heavy and his legs will undoubtedly cramp up later if he doesn’t keep moving. He wasn’t even supposed to explore this section of the city today. He wipes the blade of his katana on the ragged clothes of a zombie before moving the weapon to its sheath on his back. She opens her eyes for a second, noticing the sound, before resting her back against the wall and closing her eyes.

She really is lucky that he wouldn’t dare take advantage of her weakened state to rob her or anything.

“Hey, girl.”

“Huh?” She’s definitely out of it. Exhausted at the very least.

“How long will it take you to get back?”

“Almost an hour, but I’m not about to tell a stranger that,” she says groggily before amending the statement to what she probably intended to say. “Not too far, don’t worry about me. Besides, I can take care of myself.” She gestures to the defeated zombies with a wave of her hand, a little bit of pride seeping into her voice.

“I don’t doubt it for a minute, he replies drily, blue eyes watching her cautiously. There’s no way she’ll make it a full hour walking. She probably will collapse before she even manages to walk a few city blocks.

He debates bringing her to the warehouse, despite that there’s a tacit agreement that they refuse to pick up strays. Given that the last person to join them was Aizen, and he nearly destroyed them all, it’s a fair enough decision. His humanity fights against the logic and practicality that have become his second nature since that time. Should he risk the safety of everyone he cares about to save this one woman, or are the potential benefits greater than the risks?

He doesn’t have time to come to a conclusion; the girl’s legs give out from underneath her body and she collapses to the cement. Her body is unmoving except for shallow breathing. If he were to leave her, she would blend in with all of the zombies. He moves closer, cautious that it’s not a ploy to knock him out and steal his weapons. Eventually, he’s close enough to see that she’s entirely unconscious. He checks her briefly for a bite or any wounds that would have caused her to collapse, but finds nothing. Realizing that the best and most logical course of action is to carry her the much shorter fifteen minutes or so back to his warehouse, he begins to move her weapons so that he will be able to carry her. Her hands, he notes, are cold and clammy, while the rest of her body is noticeably warm. A thin sheen of sweat on her face reflects the sunlight, and it’s then that he realizes that she’s suffering from a fever.

Toshiro sighs as he packs her knives and brass knuckles into her bag. Of _course_ she has to be sick too.

The walk back ends up taking closer to half an hour than his anticipated time frame.

He enters the warehouse with the unconscious woman slung over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. She doesn’t weigh a lot, but her clothes hide a surprising amount of muscle; by the time he reaches the door to the infirmary, his muscles are tired and he’s more than ready to toss her down on a cot. At the very least, he was fortunate to avoid any stray zombies on the way back. He drops the girl’s bag outside the door to the med bay before lowering his sword next to it. There’s only one other person present in the room when he enters, a slightly older man named Hanatarou. His back is turned from the door as he takes inventory of the medical supplies.

“Do you have the keys to isolation?”

The medic jumps in surprise, accidentally dropping a bottle of ibuprofen, which rolls towards the center of the room. “Hitsugaya? What are you doing here?” He picks up the bottle and pauses when he finally notices the third person in the room. “Who’s the girl?”

“I found her fighting through an entire horde on her own before she collapsed,” he says, sparing the relatively squeamish Hanatarou from a description of her brutal fighting methods. “She would have been found by more and killed if I left her.”

“Ah. Yes.” He scrambles to his feet, fishing in his pockets for the keys to the critical care area. Typically, there are no people in solitary unless there is the danger of the person dying, and, by extension, transforming into a zombie. He unlocks the gate and gestures for Toshiro to enter first.

“I didn’t have the chance to check for any hidden weapons in her shoes or anything,” he says as he lowers the girl into the lone cot. “I bet she’ll try to fight against anyone who attempts to take her blades.”

Hanatarou gulps. “You’d better be the one to check, then.”

She’s not hiding anything under her jacket or on her torso—he would have noticed that while carrying her to the warehouse. But that leaves searching her lower body, and although he knows Hanatarou wouldn’t make a big deal about it, Matsumoto would have a field day. Not only did he bring a girl back despite his usual logical and rule-abiding judgment, but he’s essentially giving her a pat-down to check for weapons. He finds a hidden blade strapped to her ankle, but other than that, her clothes are free of anything that could be used as a weapon.

Deeming his time in the infirmary over, Toshiro declares, “Take care of her.”

Hanatarou nods solemnly, “I’ll do what I can. You should tell everyone that we’ve got a guest.”

It’s going to be a long day.

He later meets with everyone in the mess hall, ignoring the fact that there are still a number of groups still out on retrieval or resupply missions. Everyone is distrustful of the recovering woman, and it’s a fair enough reaction. Toshiro runs a hand through his hair in frustration, knowing full well that any mishaps due to her presence will fall on his shoulders.

“I’ll take care of it,” he says. They aren’t overly convinced, but they trust him enough.

For some reason, he doesn’t regret bringing the girl back; when he explains trade possibilities, everyone else begins to see his point.

Scratch it being a long day. It’s going to be a long couple of weeks.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! Please review.


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